


tapping the vein

by nighimpossible



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Battle Mage Caleb, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, PTSD, Rope Bondage, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-04 09:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/nighimpossible
Summary: One nice thing about the military is that, as a member, you get two things: the uniform and the fear that comes along with it, woven into the seams. People see you and flinch.“Watch it!” the coarse man who just knocked Caleb to the ground says with a scowl. “The road ain’t no place to be reading no books!”That fear is a layer of protection Caleb misses, on occasion, even so many years removed from the Reserve.





	tapping the vein

**Author's Note:**

> This all sprung from an idea that a few people were bouncing around on Twitter about a possible Caleb backstory where he was a former battle mage. Notably, [this art by Alexiel April](https://twitter.com/AlexielApril/status/969719401686749185) was HUGE inspiration, so go give her some love. Also, [ever since I saw those damn red ropes on Fjord's canon outfit, well](https://twitter.com/perseused/status/965041898019844097). I had to do _something_ about it.
> 
> Warnings include what I would call an under-negotiated kink. These are two consenting adults who do not discuss the ramifications of what they subsequently do while one person is in a fairly precarious emotional state, so I'm electing to use the Mildly Dubious Consent tag—though YMMV. The fic ultimately does address this lack of communication.
> 
> Many, many thanks to everyone who held my hand while this beast of a fic refused to get written. Biggest thanks to Jordan for telling me that this didn't read like a manual and Kate who quite seriously helped me salvage this monstrosity and turn it into something great. They made this better! I don't deserve them!
> 
> Final note: I know they shared one room in Alfield. Pretend they got two. Spoilers through episode 7.

 

 

 

 

Desire is human. Caleb learned this as a young man when he looked on the little his parents had to offer after years of serfdom under the rule of the Empire. It’s only human to see a farm his family doesn’t even own properly and want more for them. It’s only human to want more for himself.

 

So Caleb starts stealing. It’s not morally sound, but it _is_ easy. The Widogasts have an upstanding reputation. No one expects young, freckled Caleb to trick anyone in their small town out of the things they’ve earned. Caleb capitalizes on that assumption. He starts with small things at first, things he can tuck under his jacket in the blink of an eye: loaves of bread fresh from the oven left on window sills to cool, apples at market during their busiest hours. The longer he evades punishment, the more his confidence grows.

 

He gets cocky.

 

One night, Caleb returns to his parents’ farm with a neighbor’s goat. The look his mother fixes on him is a mix of disappointment and relief. Caleb isn’t certain how to parse the look on his father’s face.

 

Another night, he slaps ten gold on the table to pay for repairs to the barn roof.

 

The Widogasts are smart enough not to ask questions.

 

“Just be careful, Cay,” Pop would sigh as Caleb put bread on the table for the fourth week in a row.

 

But careful doesn’t get him gold in his pocket, or food on the table. So Caleb grows bolder and even more daring in his cons.

 

“I’ll pay two silver for that hog,” he’d promise, sliding over a couple of coppers dressed up in shiny paint.

 

“You dropped this,” he’d say gallantly, handing over a silver piece while pocketing the rest of the wallet. A careful distraction means an easy extraction. It’s not hard, conning good folk out of the things they carry. Caleb thinks it should be more difficult for him to do bad things. But maybe actions aren’t good or bad, they just are. After all, the people he steals from aren’t rich, but they have more than his parents. Caleb decides, a little pridefully, that of course he has a line. He just hasn’t not crossed it yet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Caleb can’t resist going to the local inn the night the Dwendalian troops come into town. His heart beats in his chest a little erratically as the rational part of his brain reminds him of the danger in pissing off Dwendalian army men. Regardless, Caleb sneaks inside the inn towards the bar. He spies a tall man dressed in a Dwendalian Reserve uniform distractedly ordering a round for his men. Rich, and likely too proud to hunt around a small town like Caleb’s in the morning looking for a perpetrator. _Perfect_.

 

Caleb shoulders into the man, a small knife between his fingers ready to cut the man’s purse. It’s a quick trick of the wrist, one he’s gotten good at over time. “Watch yourself,” the officer warns as Caleb falls purposefully against him, swaying as if he’s had a bit too much mead for the night. The knife cuts into the pouch at the man’s waist and Caleb feels coins fall into the palm of his hand. The officer steadies him with a strong arm. “I said _watch yourself_. Hells, you’re too young to be this drunk.”

 

“Ter’ibly sorry,” Caleb pretends to slur, hiding his face as he turns away. He’s twenty feet from the door. The path is clear, though the inn is flooded with foreign faces. He can make it, Caleb _knows_ he can make it—

 

A hand catches his wrist, vice-like in its tight grasp. He forces Caleb’s hand open to reveal the stolen gold coins hidden between his fingers. “Clever,” the officer says, twisting Caleb’s arm until he’s forced to drop the gold coins, where they land with a few loud _clacks_ onto the wooden floor. “ _Arrest this thief_.”

 

“Shit,” Caleb hisses.

 

It seems that, at last, Caleb has tricked a few gold pieces out of the wrong man.

 

Ripping his wrist out of the officer’s hand, Caleb starts running towards freedom. He tries to dodge past the two soldiers at the door, but they manage to scoop him up under his arms and lift him completely off his feet. Caleb kicks and snarls like a wild animal, but they drag him back with little effort. It’s not a very dignified sight, if Caleb says so himself. Manacles are slapped on his wrists in an instant.

 

“Shouldn’t I get the sheriff?” Mason, the barkeep, asks curiously. He shoots Caleb a glare that reads _look what you’ve got yourself into, you bloody idiot_. But it’s clear he’s trying to help, and Caleb isn’t sure he deserves that.

 

“This town is part of the Empire,” the officer says smoothly, taking a single step to cover one of the gold coins on the floor with the sole of his foot. “And we are soldiers who enforce King Dwendal’s law. You trust us to protect you, don’t you?” He smiles at Mason, who wilts a little behind the bar. “So why don’t you trust us to settle a minor issue?”

 

It’s clear that this man holds all the power. Looking closer at the soldier’s uniform, Caleb can see various pinned insignia on the man’s shoulder. This is a decorated war hero of the Dwendalian Empire. He’s going to make the final call.

 

“I’d suggest you play nice, _recruit_ ,” the officer calls back to Caleb in a mildly amused lilt. “Or you’ll be doing the rest of this interview on your knees.”

 

“I’m playing nice,” Caleb says, tugging his arms out of the grasp of his captor behind him. “The nicest, really.” He pauses. “You said _interview?_ ”

 

“My coin purse would say otherwise,” the officer muses thoughtfully, ignoring Caleb’s question. He runs a hand through his blonde hair, and Caleb watches as a few golden strands fall to hang in front of his right eye. Perhaps attempting to slit the small pouch at his waist had been a bad call. Still, he’d gotten away with more in the past. Without risk, there’s little reward.

 

“And you are?” Caleb asks. The cuffs around his wrists chafe more than hurt, but he makes a convincing wince when he wrings his hands.

 

The officer reaches into his pocket and takes out a small metal container. Caleb watches as he opens it carefully and takes out a cigarette. “A friend, I hope. That or you’ve made a terrible enemy.” The officer leans over to his right, reaching his arm between two scared looking bystanders to light his cigarette on the candle in the center of the table. Smoke begins to climb upwards, and when the officer puts the end of the cigarette between his lips, Caleb feels caught. “The name is Zachariah Beck. I’m a lieutenant in the fifth Dwendalian phalanx. And today just might be your lucky day.” He waves a hand at a few underlings. “Get the other prisoners, we might as well get this over with here while I’m feeling _amenable_.”

 

Caleb watches as Beck drags a chair to sit in the center of the room. A few soldiers rush out the door and only return with a handful other young men who Caleb assumes are similar plights. “Rather go to prison than sit through this bullshit,” one dark-haired boy grumbles as he’s shoved next to Caleb in matching manacles.

 

“Be my guest,” Beck nods at the new addition. “You ever been in prison, boy?”

 

The boy looks nervous for a second before admitting, “No, I haven’t.”

 

Beck grins. “They won’t take kindly to you there. What’s a few years in my service versus a few years behind bars?” He shrugs, shifting his gaze to Caleb. “The way I see it, with me—you get paid. You’ll have some freedom, too. And you’ll get trained with skills: _real_ skills, things you can use to make something of yourself in the future.” Beck takes a long drag, inhaling deeply before letting the smoke drift out his nose like some kind of wyrmling. “Or you could rot in jail for the maximum sentence possible. I can make either of those things happen.” He takes another a long drag on his cigarette. “King Dwendal doesn’t take kindly to crime in his lands.”

 

Caleb bites at the inside of his cheek while the rest of the potential recruits mumble amongst themselves. Out of all the things that could have happened after being caught, this isn’t _terrible_ , per se.

 

“I see something in you,” Beck drawls. He doesn’t take his eyes off Caleb, but he addresses them as a group. “I see more than a bandit, or a thief, or a conman.”

 

The Dwendalian Empire’s newest recruits have barely reached their man’s height. Fewer than half have scruff on their cheeks, including himself, and that doesn’t exactly give Caleb extreme confidence in their ability to conquer. Caleb never thought he’d end up in the army, but between jail or the Reserve, there’s really no choice.

 

“ _Potential,_ ” Lieutenant Beck says, his tone now invigorating and bright as Caleb’s manacles are uncuffed. Beck is tall and lean, and Caleb follows the line of his tailored pant leg all the way down to his ankles. Caleb stands a little taller. “You have it. I can nurture it.” Beck shrugs. “Or you can spend some quality time in the stockades.”

 

He sticks out his hand for Caleb to shake. “You in, _freund_?” Hearing the Zemnian on Beck’s tongue throws Caleb, briefly. It’s a language he speaks with his parents alone. Caleb wonders how Beck clocked his heritage so easily. Maybe he’s just good with faces.

 

In retrospect, Caleb thinks some time in the stockades might have done him some good.

 

Caleb slides his hand into Beck’s grasp. “ _Ja_ ,” he affirms. “I’m in.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s all theoretical at first: learning how to follow orders, learning how to hold a blade. Caleb is decent at the first and atrocious at the second. Eventually, the boys like Caleb who show an aptitude for magic are sectioned off from the main group to join the Warcasters.

 

“You’re now part of a group of elite mages trained to bring the enemy down not with brute force, but with arcane skill,” Commander Brandt explains. A short man with dark hair and a thick beard that Caleb wishes he could grow, Brandt is a good teacher but a better friend. He’s one of the few Caleb makes during his time in the Reserve.

 

“Magic is a flow,” Brandt instructs Caleb after a few fruitless hours of attempting to learn the spell _alarm_. “Let the magic flow from your well of power. Study is key, but so is practice. Hold your desired result in your mind’s eye. Then tap the vein, and release.”

 

Caleb focuses on the thread in his hand, quiets his mind, and taps the vein.

 

“Better,” Brandt praises, crossing over the alarm line and rousing Caleb from his meditative state a few minutes later. “Excellent work, Warcaster.”

 

Caleb doesn’t deserve that title yet, but regardless, he flushes under Brandt’s praise.

 

Magic comes to Caleb easily. It doesn’t make him the most popular recruit of the bunch.

 

Caleb is a quick learner in a crowd of boys trying to prove themselves men. His fellows don’t love him for his ability to pick up spells after only a few hours of study. Brandt brushes off the grumblings of what he refers to as “Caleb’s lessers,” which only seems to heighten the problem. Caleb’s allies dwindle in the barracks, and he goes to sleep with a black eye more than twice a month. Lieutenant Beck is pleased with Caleb’s progress, however: pleased enough to attach him to an active unit of battle mages after just a year of training. Getting moved seems to solve a few of Caleb’s problems.

 

“I saw something in you a year ago that gave me pause,” Beck nods as Caleb casts for him. Fire springs from Caleb’s fingertips and a practice dummy in the distance goes up in flames. A few strands of Beck’s hair, usually kept back neatly in a small tie at the nape of his neck, have escaped to frame his face in the dusky light. “But there is a difference between seeing and believing, yeah?”

 

Caleb throws an orb of light into the air between them. He means to show off, but the light flickers slightly as his nerves creep in. “I’m ready, sir.”

 

Beck just laughs, clapping a strong hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “You’re not. But no one ever is.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Caleb is nineteen years old when he first sees the front lines.

 

“Get down, Widogast!” Beck screams, pushing Caleb down hard into the dirt. His knees crunch in the soil, squelching deep into the bloodied earth. Caleb looks up to see the flailing sword of a Julous soldier swings where Caleb once stood. Beck kicks the enemy hard in the chest, sending him sprawling.

 

“Come on, Widogast,” Beck commands. “Light him up.”

 

Caleb takes a knee before grabbing the diamond that hangs around his neck. He spins it and thrusts his hands forward as flames erupt from his fingertips. It’s all muscle memory, and Caleb is impressed to find out that Brandt was right: practice has seared this maneuver into his bones. It’s not the prettiest piece of magic he’s ever cast, but it sets the soldier on fire all the same. The enemy screams, hands reaching up to bat the flames away in vain. The body falls, but the screaming continues until Beck puts a hand over Caleb’s mouth. Caleb’s scream quiets.

 

“ _Schau nicht,_ Caleb _._ Don’t look,” Beck huffs, dragging Caleb up by the scruff of his neck and averting his gaze. The smell of burning hair invades his senses and Caleb tries not to vomit. Beck puts himself between Caleb and the burnt Julous corpse. Caleb’s breathing comes a little bit easier. “You did well.”

 

He’s never used his magic to hurt someone else before.

 

It seems there is a difference between practice and application.

 

Caleb nods absently, only stumbling a few times on their way back to the main phalanx. Beck keeps a steadying hand on the back of Caleb’s neck.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

After his first blood, Caleb finds his footing under Beck’s command. He’s still squeamish, but his spells are ranged and he makes sure to keep a wide berth from the brawl. Beck keeps him close.

 

“I’m nowhere near as experienced as you,” Caleb stutters after Beck gives him his assignment. “You should have a Warcaster like Brandt: someone that’s been in combat for years, not—not _me_.” _Someone who can protect you,_ Caleb thinks to himself.

 

Keeping Beck safe is a responsibility Caleb cannot shoulder.

 

“Brandt has his hands full with the recruits, and I don’t want _someone else_. I want _you_. You’re my little protege, after all,” Beck tells him with a grin. He digs into his pocket and takes out something that glints in the sunlight: a new rank pin. “Why wouldn’t we work together?”

 

When Beck affixes him with the proper accolades of a fully trained Warcaster, Caleb knows he doesn’t deserve it. He accepts it all the same.

 

There are, of course, rumors that spread about the two of them, none of which Caleb deigns to address. Caleb thinks things were easier when his fellows were simply jealous of his magic. Beck shrugs off the comments, to Caleb's relief.

 

“Real convenient for Beck to have a pet Warcaster who can suck him off in the evenings,” someone coos loud enough for Caleb to hear. It doesn’t help that Caleb has started sleeping in Beck’s tent, but the ranks of the footsoldiers have become a place of gossip that Caleb can no longer tolerate.

 

“There’s my bodyguard,” Beck calls at the sound of Caleb’s footfalls. Caleb winces to himself, remembering Beck’s request that Caleb move into his lieutenant’s tent. _For my protection, Widogast. Nothing more_.

 

Of course, this only stokes the flames of the gossip mongers around camp. Caleb, for his part, gestures at them rudely before parting the folds of the lieutenant’s tent and ducking inside.

 

“Found you another spell scroll,” Beck says, gesturing at a bloodied piece of parchment. Caleb knows better than to ask what Julous soldier’s corpse Beck snagged this artifact from. He simply pockets it for further study. To the victors go the spoils.

 

“ _Danke_.” Caleb situates himself at the foot of Beck’s bed roll. He unfurls his own roll quietly as Beck inspects his personal map.

 

“We move south tomorrow,” Beck says, answering Caleb’s questioning stare.

 

“How much farther do you think we’ll go?” Caleb asks. It feels like the Dwendalian army has been marching for years. Caleb wonders if King Dwendal will ever be satisfied with his Empire’s vastness.

 

“Through the Marrow Valley, at the least,” Beck replies with a shrug. “Bertrand likely wants the Menagerie Coast, but the mountains are going to be a bitch to navigate.”

 

Caleb crosses his legs, leaning an elbow on one knee. “I mean—how much _longer_ do you think we’ll go?”

 

Beck turns around at this. “Ah, so _that’s_ the real question you wanted to ask.”

 

Caleb’s cheeks burn, but he sticks his chin out defiantly. “Fighting forever isn’t a life.”

 

Beck laughs at that, and Caleb shrinks down a little in his seat. “It is to some, Caleb.” Beck unstraps his greatsword from his back and begins shirking off his armor. “But if it makes you feel any better, this intensity likely won’t last through the winter.” Beck turns and stares at him with a bemused expression. “So then: what kind of life _do_ you want, when this is all said and done?”

 

It’s not a question Caleb expects. It’s not a choice he expected, either. Deciding what you want to do with your life: that’s a luxury few can afford. Caleb bites on his lip before deciding, “I want to see a library again.”

 

Beck laughs, sitting down at the edge of his bed roll. “You will.”

 

Caleb grows bolder. “I want peace and quiet. Nothing like the front lines here.”

 

Beck nods. “You’ll have quiet. Too damn much of it, in my opinion. But you’ll have it.” He looks down at his calloused hands. “Impossible to find a louder place than an army camp.” Despite Beck’s truth, the tent where Caleb and his lieutenant sit is quiet enough.

 

Beck has a scar across his bottom lip that Caleb has to force himself to look away from. “I want—”

 

Caleb isn’t certain how that sentence ends: probably in embarrassment and alienation of the one of the few friends he’s ever had.

 

Instead, Beck takes his hand, running a gentle thumb over his first knuckle. Caleb shouldn’t be surprised: Beck has always read him well. “If you want it, when the war is over, you’ll have that, too.” Beck grins at him. “I’d prefer to keep things professional until you’re out from under my command.” He raises Caleb’s knuckles to his mouth, grazing his lips across them. Caleb raises an eyebrow. Beck rolls his eyes. “As professional as possible. I think we can both excuse a foible or two.”

 

“Or two,” Caleb nods, feeling bold and leaning forward. Beck raises an eyebrow at Caleb before sighing loudly.

 

“We both know I’ve never been very professional,” Beck breathes, closing the gap between their lips. “Just stay quiet.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s this one,” Caleb hears Brandt heave from outside Beck’s tent. “Now let the recruits go— _oh_ —”

 

Caleb sits up in a flash: he knows the sounds that the dead and dying make. “Beck,” Caleb calls out in the dark. “Something’s wrong. _Zachariah—_ ”

 

“Hands up, war dogs,” a snarl of a man instructs from the front of the tent. In the moonlight, Caleb can see Brandt’s body face down in the dirt. The soldier holds out a bloodied dagger and twitches it in Caleb’s direction. Caleb, breathless, puts his hands behind his head.

 

The enemy invades in a flash: Beck tussles with the Julous commander for a hopeful moment, but when Caleb is thrown to the dirt by the hair, Beck calls out, “ _Wait_. Wait.”

 

“Show the lieutenant what we do to Dwendalian scum,” the Julous commander barks. A glint of silver moves in the darkness, and a sudden, sharp pain courses through Caleb’s side. He cries out, squirming to move out of the way of his attacker.

 

“Fuck you,” Caleb grits out. The spear bores deeper, and Caleb sees stars. Dying in Beck’s tent with a spear in his side is not what he would have put money on. Then again, Caleb’s always had terrible luck.

 

“Brave little pet,” the soldier above him praises. “Shame it won’t do you no good.”

 

“What do you want?” Beck asks through gritted teeth, and the game is over.

 

Caleb has a wound in his side and the boot of an enemy combatant on the center of his chest. “Stay down, mutt,” the soldier above him growls, grinding his boot against Caleb’s ribs. Caleb grunts as air is forced from his lungs.

 

“Lieutenant Zachariah Beck,” the Julous soldier sneers, breathing hard. He has Beck in a headlock, one large arm curled around his neck. “I’d kill you here, but my commander says you have information that can benefit the Julous Dominion. So we’re taking you back, and you’ll scream every secret you’ve ever learned. We’ll wrench it from your mind with magic and pain, whatever works. But I promise that you will die by my hand.” He leans in to Beck’s ear, but Caleb can hear his final words: “Just give me a few days.”

 

Caleb looks up at Beck. He’s seen the man afraid before. Caleb knows what terror looks like on Beck’s face. He saw it once when Caleb took a spear to the chest: Beck kneeling over him with some kind of potion, real fear coloring his cheeks. That’s not an expression you forget easily.

 

Beck is not afraid now. He is furious.

 

“We’ll kill your little _friend_ first.” He says friend like it means something else. When the boot on Caleb’s chest crunches down, he cries out in pain.

 

“Widogast,” Beck calls out. Caleb’s opens his eyes, though it’s hard to take a full breath. Beck is looking down at him with righteous fury in his eyes. _Do it_ , he mouths at Caleb.

 

Caleb shakes his head. It’s an impossible charge: if Caleb sets the man ablaze, he’ll catch Beck in the crossfire. He’ll burn them both alive. This is a command he cannot obey. This is a command he _will not obey—_

 

“ _Do it, Caleb_ ,” Beck chokes out. He’s begging, and Caleb has never been able to deny Beck.

 

Tears blur Caleb’s vision as the spell casts from his fingertips. Fire engulfs Beck and his captor. The boot on his chest lightens as the subordinate runs to put out the flames, but the damage is done. Caleb knows how quickly his fire can burn away human flesh. Caleb runs hard out of the tent and finds himself in the middle of a bloodbath.

 

As Caleb surveys his surroundings, he realizes that this wasn’t a fight: it was a massacre. Bodies are scattered across the camp, most decorated in the uniform of the Dwendalian Reserve. A wave of nausea hits Caleb as he finds Brandt’s body in front of Beck’s tent, a spear dug deep into his stomach from behind. Bile covers the back of his throat, but he swallows it down. Caleb runs, trying his best not to focus on the faces of the dead he passes by. He runs until he can’t run anymore, Beck’s voice still ringing in his ears.

 

Slowing to a limp, Caleb skirts the outside of the camp. Blood stains the ground where he walks. Quietly, he strips the Dwendalian regalia from his shoulders before sneaking off into the nearby woods.

 

He walks for miles before falling to his knees amongst the trees as his legs give out. The forest that surrounds him seems untouched by the scourge of war, and it’s a small comfort. Caleb finds cold earth beneath his fingers as he claws at the ground. Hot fury brings tears to his eyes for a moment, and then it’s all grief: grief of a life he had just hours ago. He screams out in vain before covering his mouth with a dirt-smeared palm. The echoes of his torment disturb a few nearby birds that scatter away from the sound.

 

Caleb wipes his face dry. “Damn it,” he says quietly to no one but himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Caleb hides alone in the woods for three nights, curled inside the hollowed skeleton of an oak tree that has seen better days. He doesn’t dare search out food or water, simply surviving on pure, unadulterated will. There’s a town thirty miles off, but Caleb isn’t confident in his ability to make it there with the wound in his side. The risk of discovery by the Julous soldiers that attacked his camp is high enough.

 

Once he’s gathered his strength, he doubles back. Whoever is left—whatever is left—he’d rather see it with his own eyes than wonder forever. He’d rather see it than imagine it in his nightmares for years to come.

 

As he approaches the campsite, Caleb smells iron in the air. Iron and smoke.

 

His boots squelch into the wet earth. Caleb kneels down, scooping a handful of red mud into his palm and shoving it into his pocket. A bloody memory.

 

There are bodies everywhere. Most faces he recognizes, though some are so brutalized that it’s hard to tell if the creature was human at the start. He doesn’t see anyone over the age of thirty-five.

 

Caleb finds their tent burned to a crisp. He spends a few fruitless minutes trying to sort through the ash for any sign of Beck. Instead, he finds a Julous Dominion symbol. Caleb picks up the diamond-shaped insignia between his thumb and forefinger. It’s just a thing. Caleb spits on it before tossing it aside.

 

There is likely a Dwendalian outpost close by. Caleb could rejoin the Empire’s Warcasters in a different phalanx, reintegrate himself back into the military. Maybe he would even have a chance at killing the Julous soldiers who did this.

 

But the soldier who killed Beck is dead, and Caleb doesn’t know what the army is without Beck in it. He tries to muster up some desire to bring the great King Dwendal glory and finds himself coming up empty. Caleb wants to scream at the person he was just a week ago. _Why didn’t you savor it, you fool?_ Caleb now sees that the path back towards the army is no path at all.

 

He walks away from the tent and flicks his wrist. A bengal cat wanders into existence and meows pointedly at him. “Yeah, alright,” he says quietly, bending down so that Frumpkin can climb onto his shoulders and curl around his neck.

 

Caleb turns south and never looks back.

 

He puts magic aside. Caleb Widogast can’t be a Warcaster: not as the thing he is now, not all broken apart. The person he was with Beck: he can’t be that man anymore. Damn King Dwendal, damn the Julous Dominion, damn the lot of them. Caleb is done fighting.

 

He keeps his spellbooks. Caleb has always been a sentimental fool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**fifteen years later**

 

 

 

One nice thing about the military is that, as a member, you get two things: the uniform and the fear that comes along with it, woven into the seams. People see you and flinch.

 

“Watch it!” the coarse man who just knocked Caleb to the ground says with a scowl. “The road ain’t no place to be reading no books!”

 

That fear is a layer of protection Caleb misses, on occasion, even so many years removed from the Reserve.

 

Caleb grunts before getting to his knees as the ground squelches beneath him. Tucked under his arm, the book is clean, but Caleb’s clothes are ruined. When Caleb looks up, the man who ran into him is already on his way.

 

Caleb makes a half-human grunt under his breath.

 

“We should kill him,” a high-pitched, disembodied voice says resolutely.

 

Caleb balks, twirling around to find a pair of wide, yellow eyes staring at him from beneath a ratty hooded cloak. The figure is small of stature, only as tall as Caleb’s hip. A halfling, perhaps. Caleb tucks his book away and tilts his head at them.

 

“Generally—killing is frowned upon. At least in these parts,” Caleb says stiltedly. The words come out in unpracticed spurts: afterall, Caleb hasn’t spoken much in the last few days. Months. Years, really. It’s strange, pretending to be anything less than a frayed wire after so many years alone. Caleb steels his expression for the stranger and hopes he looks slightly less feral.

 

“Oh,” the hooded figure says. “That’s weird.”

 

 _Weird?_ Maybe not a halfling, then. Caleb purses his lips before setting his hand on his hip. He has a dagger on his belt, though he’s not that good at using it. “Why don’t you show me your face?”

 

“That’s a bad idea.”

 

“You’ve seen mine,” Caleb points out.

 

“Well, you’ve got a nice face,” the figure points out. “A bit muddy now, but nice. If you see my face, well, you might want to kill me. And we only just became friends!”

 

“Friends?” Caleb asks, struck by the childlike tone in the figure’s voice. He wonders how old they are. “I promise I won’t kill you if you show me your face.” It’s a simple oath that Caleb doesn’t mind making. Promises to strangers are easy things to break.

 

The stranger lowers their hood slowly, carefully. From beneath the cloak a face emerges, framed by long, knotted green hair. It’s a goblin girl.

 

Caleb could tighten his fingers around the knife at his belt. No one would think less of him for putting down a beast.

 

“What’s your name?” Caleb finally asks, kneeling down beside her. He might give her his, in time.

 

She smiles at him nervously. “You can call me Nott the Brave.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Caleb has managed alone for so many years that Nott is a surprise. He wouldn’t call his time beyond the army a success, but he survived:  he begged when he had to and stole the rest. It’s more than some got. Nott, however, is easy to spend time with. She is bizarre, but strangely sweet, and Caleb finds himself mildly charmed.

 

“This might just work,” he tells her after they manage to get their hands on a small shipment of smoked meats with a well-timed Poor Man’s Hand and Nott’s quick fingers.

 

They get arrested the next day. Caleb isn’t surprised as they’re dragged off to the local jail. It’s just his luck these days.

 

What _is_ a surprise is Nott unshackling herself with a hidden lock-pick. “Clever girl,” Caleb praises, and Nott beams up at him. Jumping out of the window of the jail is a little trickier—Frumpkin is squished to death in octopus form by a falling goblin—but they manage.

 

Keeping their heads down in Trostenwald seems like a fool’s hope, but no one ever comes after them.

 

After a few false accusations and a demon toad felled, they find themselves a new set of allies. For a few years now, Caleb has wistfully considered joining up with a group of rational, strong adventurers who could provide a decent buffer to the world. It’s not easy to find people to fall in with, however, when you’ve forgotten how to participate in society.

 

It’s been a long time since Caleb cast regularly. “Sorry” is a word he becomes very familiar with in his first few outings in Trostenwald. Spells that should come easily sputter out before reaching their desired target or bounce off ineffectually. Hells, he nearly dies twice before the group leaves the town.

 

But some training stays with you. Caleb keeps toward the back line as best he can, using the larger members of the party to take the brunt of the battle while he snipes from behind. It’s a skill Brandt taught him: “Warcasters never need to be at the battle front.”

 

Nott’s quick hands make this easier than going it alone. In fact, each member of their group has different skills to offer. Between brute force, colorful incantations, and blood rites, there is a strange balance in the chaos. And it’s not often you find a man with a disappearing sword. He can’t tell if Fjord truly doesn’t understand his blade, but Caleb’s certainly curious. Fjord is good at keeping his past in the past.

 

Caleb is as well. He’s careful with his secrets. Nott is... less so.

 

“You broke out of prison, eh?” Beau prods after Nott lets it slip that she and Caleb were detained recently.

 

“That’s very impressive,” Fjord comments. Caleb tilts his head in Fjord’s direction. Given how often Fjord throws the word around, Caleb’s fairly certain he doesn’t understand what the word ‘impressive’ means.

 

Regardless, Fjord remains perhaps the most dependable of Caleb’s new friends. He and Caleb see eye to eye on most subjects: laying low, for example. Caleb makes it as clear as he can that there’s no name he wants to make for himself. The dreams where he saw himself as a hero stopped a long time ago. He only wants to make a little coin and survive. That will be enough for the next few days, at least.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Routing out the gnoll army that attacked Alfield is easier said than done. Caleb doesn’t enjoy seeking out danger, but gold is gold. As long as they come back with breath in their lungs and severed ears to show Bryce, they’ll get what they’re owed.

 

Gaining Shakaste as an ally puts a thumb on the scales in their favor, but fear still rules Caleb as they descend into the mines. He stays back and hidden as well as he can until Nott goes down in Beau’s arms.

 

“No,” Caleb murmurs under his breath before stalking forward to set their enemies ablaze. For most of their encounters with the gnolls, Caleb’s strikes have missed, sputtering out in the darkness.

 

Not this time.

 

He hasn’t cast this regularly in years, but he remembers the sensation of a spell well-cast. Excitement rockets through his veins as fire sprouts from his extended arm. Caleb’s heart pumps loudly in his ears, a thorough reminder that he is still alive: _lub, dub._ The sound drowns everything else out. In an instant, flames engulf the gnoll priest, fire licking up the sides of the priest’s head. Screams pierce Caleb’s bubble of focus as the body falls: his scorched skin is laid bare, revealing a now charred skull beneath.

 

 _Not again_.

 

As his companions cheer next to him, Caleb blinks. The cave falls away.

 

He sees the priest, of course. But he sees Beck too. How could he not? Repression is a skill that Caleb thought he had perfected, but perhaps a memory as painful as that one isn’t something that can die so easily.

 

“You alright, Caleb?” a blunt voice asks.

  
“Time for that later,” another voice says, and someone pulls him in close to lay a kiss on his brow. Caleb startles back into reality at the gentle touch.

 

“I’m fine,” Caleb says, and the words sound like a lie even to his own ears. “I’m _fine_ ,” he repeats when Nott looks at up at him, worry in her eyes.

 

Caleb drifts between the then and the now on the journey back to Alfield. The group doesn’t bother him much: they’re too busy interacting with the people they saved and guessing at how many gnoll ears are jammed in Jester’s pickle jar.

 

Caleb looks out across the flat plains of the Marrow Valley. Green surrounds their group for as far as the eye can see. So much violence to secure this place for King Dwendal—and for what? Beck is dead and valley aurochs still roam these lands without a care in the world for who rules over them.

 

Someone bumps into his shoulder. “Come on now, Caleb.” Molly’s cadence is softer than usual.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Caleb feels off-kilter even after an evening of merriment in Alfield. He goes through the items collected for the group, and it distracts him for a moment. Once he’s done with his spellwork, the smell of burnt flesh creeps back. It’s nauseating, sickening. Usually if his mind drifts back toward that night, Caleb can find something else to occupy his thoughts. Now, he’s fallen too deep in the pit of his own memories; he needs a steady hand to pull him to safety.

 

 _Do it, Caleb_. Beck’s final words haunt him like a ghost.

 

Caleb needs a way out.

 

“You alright, there?”

 

Caleb looks up and decides that Molly will do.

 

Molly tries to hide his kindness in subtle flicks of coin to people tricked out of an honest deal, but Caleb notices. How strange to find a moral compass from a circus troupe hell bent on making money. How odd to find decency in a person bred from the blood of the damned.

 

If Molly can be kind to strangers, then perhaps Molly will be kind to Caleb as well.

 

“Can we talk?” Caleb doesn’t recognize his own voice. He sounds rough and broken, like the words have been through a meat grinder on the way out. Caleb clears his throat and adds, “Privately?”

 

“My mother once said you’re never more alone than when you’re in a crowded inn,” Molly smiles. The grin doesn’t reach his eyes, which gaze upon Caleb with pity. Caleb is familiar with that look. “Why don’t we stay down here?”

 

“What I had in mind wasn’t meant for the world to see,” Caleb says plainly. “At least, not the way I do things.” The golden chain that hangs between Molly’s pointed horns echo another golden chain that hangs just under the vee of Molly’s shirt. Caleb cranes his neck subtly, sees the indentation of two barbell piercings pressing through the fabric, and swallows.

 

“That’s bold of you,” Molly says after a long moment of quiet. It’s not a compliment.

 

“It’s not a move,” Caleb declares. “It’s—it’s what I want.” It’s true: he’d like to fall into bed and forget about today. He’d like to erase Beck’s visage from his head with someone new. He wants a distraction—he wants something, _anything_ to feel good right now.

 

“I know,” Molly shrugs. “If I were a lesser person, we’d be halfway up the stairs right now. I doubt I’d still have my pants on.”

 

“Maybe,” Caleb says slowly, “you can be a lesser person tonight. Just tonight.”

 

Molly takes his hand and squeezes it tight. “You’ve got a look a friend of mine had once. They saw one too many battles.” He looks at Caleb shrewdly and makes an estimated guess. “Where were you stationed?”

 

“Shut up.” Caleb is standing up before he even realizes it. It’s a protective reflex: like when you touch a stove still hot from a coal fire. “I don’t need nice,” he says tightly, backing away from the tiefling.

 

Molly looks at him with a sad gaze. “You do, dear. You really do. And I’ll be here when you realize it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sound Caleb’s knuckles make on Fjord’s door is loud, even to Caleb’s ears. He jumps a little when the door creaks open.

 

“Evenin’, Caleb.” The tall man pushes the door wider. “What can I do you for?”

 

A shiver snakes its way down Caleb’s spine. He steps over the threshold of Fjord’s room and presses the door closed behind him, backing up against the solid wood planks to steady himself. Caleb looks up at Fjord. He feels very far away.

 

“I need something,” Caleb explains.

 

“Okay,” Fjord nods. “Something in one of the shops around these parts?”

 

Caleb laughs, and it sounds broken to his own ears. “There’s a memory I need to erase.”

 

“Ah,” Fjord nods. “Can’t buy that with gold or silver.”

 

“I’m only going to ask once,” Caleb starts, and he has to look away from Fjord’s pitying stare. Focusing on his own feet, Caleb feels the words begin to flow. “I’m stuck there, back in that moment. That’s why I froze in the mines. I close my eyes and I see him dead and I _won’t_ , I _can’t_ do it anymore—Fjord—I need to stop thinking about it. I need to not _think_.”

 

Fjord hums under his breath. “Gonna be real hard, that. You strike me as a big thinker.”

 

“ _Enough_ —just tell me you’ll help me.” Caleb huffs out a sigh. He needs Fjord to take this seriously. If Fjord turns him away like Molly did, Caleb is certain he’ll drown in memory of that night. He won’t be useful to the group—hells, he won’t be useful to _anyone_ in this state. Caleb doubts he could cast any kind of fire spell again: not with that image dancing across his vision like some kind of waking nightmare.

 

Molly was too nice to say yes. Caleb prays Fjord is less kind than he seems. “Please.”

 

Caleb must have caught Fjord in a state of getting undressed: his leathers hang open against his sides, exposing the muted green skin of his chest. He is...broad. Lean but muscled from what Caleb assumes are years of labor at port somewhere. A long white scar trails across his side, contrasting starkly against the rest of his bare skin. Everything about Fjord is new and strange. Wanting someone who reminded him nothing of Beck, Caleb had erred towards Molly, thinking that he would be a perfect distraction. But now, standing in front of Fjord, Caleb realizes that perhaps Fjord is foreign enough to be a palate cleanser. He forces himself to look up at Fjord, who seems to have decided something.

 

“You want to not think.” Fjord presses a broad hand across Caleb’s chest. Caleb feels his shoulder blades fold against the door behind him. Caleb hums a small whine, the sound reverberating in the back of his throat. Fjord’s fingers dig down against his chest, and Caleb’s eyelids flutter a little. He feels contained here, between Fjord and the door. Wherever his mind was wandering before, Caleb is present now. “How’s this?”

 

Caleb nods and Fjord slips a knee between Caleb’s legs, spreading them wider. Fjord is tall enough that this provides a sweet friction between Fjord’s thigh and Caleb’s cock. “This?” Fjord asks, rolling his hips in a slow movement that sends a shock up Caleb’s spine.

 

“‘S good,” Caleb mutters, feeling hot in the cheeks. He’s not used to asking for this sort of thing, not used to communicating his desires.

 

“Good,” Fjord nods. He gathers Caleb’s hands in his own before bringing them to his mouth. He kisses them before raising Caleb’s arms above his hand, pinning them against the door. “Try to get away.”

 

Caleb, half in rapture, half in confusion, feels his head tilt slightly. “I don’t want to get away,” he admits.

 

Fjord just smiles. “You should think about trusting me, if we’re going to do this.” He dips his head lower to murmur in Caleb’s ear. “Give it a try.”

 

Caleb furrows his brow before trying to break his wrists out of Fjord’s grasp. At first, he tries only a little. Caleb doesn’t move an inch. He struggles a little more, trying to wriggle out of Fjord’s pin. Caleb’s not going anywhere. A warm, gooey sensation swirls around his stomach as Caleb’s breath catches in his throat. He understands now why Fjord wanted him to try. “I _want_ to trust you,” is all Caleb replies.

 

The Caleb who could give over blind trust like that has been dead for a long time. Maybe he never existed. Growing up poor can give you a chip on your shoulder. But the Caleb in Fjord’s room tonight doesn’t remember what trusting someone feels like. Maybe he needs some reminding.

 

“You can’t,” Fjord says in a quiet voice. His tone is matter of fact, and Caleb isn’t sure he likes it. “I get it. You’re not that kind of guy.”

 

Caleb feels his mouth twist into a snarl. “You don’t get to tell me what I am. You have no idea what I am.” He bites down on his own lip before testing the waters with a roll of his own hips. Fjord groans in the back of his throat, a muffled sound that pleases Caleb. “But I think I can trust you tonight. Is that enough for you?”

 

Fjord is looking at Caleb with a serious expression. “Thank you for that trust,” he says, his words simple and open. Fjord then reaches down with his unoccupied hand to tilt Caleb’s chin up. His eyes are a golden amber, like the edges of the sun, and Caleb cannot look away. “Let me prove to you that I deserve it.”

 

Fjord’s mouth hovers over Caleb’s for a long moment. “And in regards to your question,” Fjord murmurs, the words gliding over Caleb’s lips like the tide reaching inland, “I’ll let you know when it’s enough.”

 

Caleb holds his breath as Fjord leans in and kisses him. It’s gentle, close-lipped, and too sweet. Caleb want to feel this tomorrow, wants to be distracted by the memories of this night for the next week. He doesn’t want kindness tonight.

 

“Come on,” Caleb groans, rocking his hips forward to meet Fjord’s. He can feel a bulge beneath the leathers, and it’s a relief to know that he’s not the only one hot under the collar here, no matter how cool Fjord is playing it. “I won’t break.”

 

Caleb won’t break because he’s already broken, but Fjord doesn’t need to know that.

 

Fjord raises an eyebrow and waits for a beat. Two beats.

 

“Please,” Caleb finally adds, breaking the quiet. His vision blurs and he sees Beck staring back at him. Blinking the memory away, Caleb chokes back a quiet sob. He needs this. He can’t take any more waiting. He needs to be overwhelmed.

 

“Okay,” Fjord says. “Okay.”

 

This time when Fjord kisses Caleb, it’s open mouthed and wanting. Fjord presses Caleb hard enough against the door that it creaks against their weight. The air leaves Caleb’s lungs in a huff as Fjord crushes him against the flat planes of his chest and abdomen. Caleb’s hands remain pinned helplessly above his head, Fjord’s large fingers wrapped around the small of Caleb’s wrists like a binding. Caleb couldn’t escape if he wanted to.

 

He doesn’t want to.

 

Caleb moans into Fjord’s mouth, a low, seeking noise that seems to come from a primal place within him. The control he prides himself on is nowhere to be seen in this bedroom. Caleb’s been taught, in his encounters with other people, to stay quiet. No one wants to be caught in a military tent. Cursing internally, Caleb’s cheeks feel red as embarrassment blossoms in his chest. He doesn’t mean to draw attention.

 

A small blossom of pain erupts from his bottom lip as Fjord nips at him. Caleb yelps. “Stay here,” Fjord commands, grinding his hips against Caleb’s as punctuation to his order. “Wherever your head just went, that’s not here. I want you here, and I can only tie your body down. You’re in charge of where your mind goes. So keep yourself here. Okay?”

 

Caleb licks his lips absently. They feel swollen under his tongue and Fjord’s ministrations. “Tie my body down?”

 

Fjord’s eyes seem to darken as he squeezes Caleb’s wrists. “If you like.” Caleb watches the ghost of a smile skirt across his lips. “I know I do. Sometimes I find that constricting the body frees the mind.”

 

“That sounds like a bullshite excuse to get me tied up in your bed,” Caleb laughs shakily.

 

Fjord shrugs. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.” He tugs upwards on Caleb’s arms and a nice, swooping sensation coasts low across Caleb’s belly. “You seem to like that kind of thing so far.”

 

Caleb realizes that Fjord has been testing these waters since he pinned his arms against the door. “I knew you were clever from the start,” Caleb pants.

 

Fjord releases Caleb. As his arms swing down, Caleb feels a faint soreness in his shoulders from the extended position. He rolls his shoulders back once and then again. “You should take your clothes off,” Fjord suggests in a mild voice as he slowly unwinds the red rope from around his waist. It’s not the first time Caleb has stared at the flash of red on Fjord’s figure, but it is certainly the first time Caleb has seen the bindings with such pointed purpose.

 

Caleb walks over to the chair by the fireplace and shrugs off his overcoat. It’s a worn item, one he’s owned since the Reserve. He can’t bring himself to get rid of it, no matter how ratty and disgusting it has become. Caleb hangs it carefully on the back of the chair.

 

“I always wondered how you had those rigged up,” Fjord calls from the bed. Caleb turns to find that he’s removed his shirt leathers and unbuckled his belt. The bulge behind the vee of his pants is formidable, even from ten feet away. Finally, the red ropes that are usually tied on his person are hanging curled in his hands. Fjord nods at Caleb, who looks down at his spellbook holsters that are criss-crossed across his back.

 

“They’re my weapons,” Caleb says quietly. “I need them at the ready. Like your sheath.” Caleb pauses, thinking of Fjord’s disappearing sword. “Well. Maybe not like _your_ sheath.”

 

Fjord just grins. Caleb wriggles the straps off his shoulders and places the books delicately on the chair. Next go the boots—dirty and mud-stained from their time in the mines—and the belt comes away easily after that. Caleb’s pants are around his ankles, and he leaves the rumpled fabric on the floor as he steps out of each leg. By the time he turns back to Fjord, he’s wearing only a ratty shirt that he’s owned since his time north of the Marrow Valley. It’s sheer enough with wear and tear that Caleb is certain Fjord can see through it.

 

Exposure therapy. That’s what Caleb thinks he’ll call tonight.

 

“I can do the rest,” Fjord says, clearing his throat. “You know, those threads really do you a disservice.” Caleb hears the compliment in Fjord’s words. He would return the favor, but Caleb thinks that Fjord has been called pretty too many times for it to really mean something. So instead, Caleb takes a few steps towards the bed. “Really, Caleb. You’ve got some kind of potential.”

 

_Potential. You have it. I can nurture it._

 

Beck’s voice rings in his ears like a warning bell.

 

Fjord smiles at Caleb, but the word brings back an ache that Caleb is certain spills out over his face. Fjord furrows his brows and says in a rough but quiet voice, “Stay here, Caleb.”

 

“It’s hard,” Caleb grits out.

 

“Let me make things easier,” Fjord suggests. Caleb draws nearer and Fjord takes his time running his broad fingers low across Caleb’s belly before lifting the fabric of the shirt up and over Caleb’s head. “That’s it,” Fjord praises, slipping a finger under the hem of Caleb’s smallclothes and tugging the small piece of fabric down with a single jerk of his arm. Caleb shivers, though it is warm in the small room of the inn.

 

“You should get on the bed,” Fjord says quietly.

 

Caleb knees onto the mattress after a long moment of pause. He’s not certain what exactly Fjord has in mind for tonight, but he’s also stupidly turned on and that has to count for something. If going with the flow seems like the way to get through this haze of emotion, Caleb will ride this out until morning.

 

Fjord puts a broad palm over the space between Caleb’s shoulder-blades. His touch is warm and reassuring, like standing in the sun. Fjord presses his lips to the nape of his neck, and then—a sharp, shudder-inducing bolt of surprise as Fjord bites down. It’s more than a nip, but Caleb doubts Fjord’s drawn blood.

 

“Just marking a claim,” Fjord notes mildly, though Caleb can feel his hard length pressed up against his hip. It seems Fjord’s leathers have slipped down. “People are gonna see you bruised tomorrow. That a problem?”

 

Caleb has a sudden vision of someone approaching him on the road to Zadash, seeing the bruising on his neck and Fjord standing nearby, and backing off. It’s an intoxicating thing, possession.

 

“Not a problem,” Caleb decides, tilting his neck back to give Fjord better access.

 

For wizards, magic is about control and release. Caleb spent years learning his trade in the Reserve. Sometimes he’s jealous of the people in his life who see magic as an innate right. Caleb has earned every piece of spellwork he’s ever cast. He was not born. He was made.

 

Fjord slips a line of rope around Caleb’s neck. “Up to you,” he says as he tightens the loop. “Some people like this. Some people think this feels like a noose.”

 

Caleb thinks it might dampen the mood if he admitted that he likes it _because_ it feels like a noose. Instead, he tilts his head back to pant against Fjord’s cheek. “It’s good,” he hums. Fjord slides the rope a little tighter. Caleb whines as the rope finds a home against his throat.

 

Fjord drops the tail of the rope around Caleb’s neck over his shoulder before busying himself with Caleb’s wrists. This time, Caleb realizes that Fjord has decided to pin his hands behind the small of his back. Already, Caleb’s shoulders feel better at the new, less strained position. The bonds holding him in place are tight enough that even with a decent amount of effort, Caleb cannot wriggle away. It’s a heady moment, giving over any ability to fight back. His hands are his weapons, and in tying him up, Fjord has stripped away any ability for Caleb to cast. Hells, his diamond focus is in his jacket pocket. Caleb has always been vulnerable, but able to pack a magical punch. Now he’s just glassware, ready to shatter.

 

If this isn’t trust, Caleb doesn’t know what is.

 

“Seems like you’ve done this before,” Caleb huffs nervously as Fjord presses his head down against the mattress.

 

“Seems like,” Fjord says, and there’s a warmth in his tone that belies a smile.

 

“I haven’t,” Caleb blurts out. “I mean, with the ropes. I’ve had sex before.” Caleb slowly turns his face into the mattress to hide his blush. “Can we pretend I said something incredibly sexy instead of whatever that was?”

 

Fjord is laughing behind Caleb, but a strong hand wanders over Caleb’s right hip, finger pads pressing against the skin there, and Caleb thinks that he hasn’t ruined the mood _too_ much. “That’s alright,” Fjord says. “It was real cute.”

 

Fjord leaves the bed briefly, and Caleb can’t remember a time he’s felt more exposed. His legs are splayed wide enough to balance his bent-over form, but that means he’s basically at Fjord’s mercy. Caleb figures that maybe he has been at Fjord’s mercy ever since he closed the door. Maybe even before that.

 

The mattress sinks down a little behind Caleb as Fjord rejoins him on the bed. A dripping cold slickness slides down Caleb’s skin, and he yelps a little at the surprise. “Sorry,” Fjord apologizes, warming the cool liquid with his own touch. “Forgot this doesn’t get real warm without some elbow grease.”

 

“Been a while?” Caleb dares.

 

Fjord slides a single finger across Caleb’s ass as his other hand steadies Caleb at the hip. “Been a while,” Fjord confirms.

 

It’s a little unfair, then, how _good_ Fjord is at opening Caleb up, considering that _it’s been a while_. But Caleb supposes that this kind of skill is not one you forget easily. Fjord is, of course, a leg up already with his warm, broad fingers.

 

“F- _fuck_ ,” Caleb whimpers into the mattress as Fjord digs another finger inside him. He twists his wrist upwards, maneuvering his fingers in a _come hither_ motion until Caleb sees stars. He bucks wildly in Fjord’s grasp, but there’s nowhere to hide. “Fuck, Fjord. _I’m not_ —I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

 

“We have all night,” Fjord suggests, his fingers insistent inside Caleb. Caleb’s knees nearly give out, but Fjord adjusts his hold, one arm slipping around Caleb’s waist. “What do you want?”

 

Caleb decides to be bold. “You should fuck me. I don’t want to come on just your fingers, though I’m sure that is—that is a _lovely_ experience.”

 

Fjord’s fingers pause. “We may need to put in a little more work,” he says in as mild a voice as possible.

 

Caleb doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see Fjord’s length in the flesh. He knows the man is large. He felt him. “We have all night,” Caleb repeats through gritted teeth as Fjord reinserts his fingers. Fjord is careful to avoid Caleb’s most sensitive spot, simply opens him up for what Caleb refers to as the main event.

 

“Here’s the deal,” Fjord says, his fingers slipping out of Caleb at long last. “You tell me if it’s too much. There are a lot of ways tonight can go.”

 

Caleb nods, arching his back to meet Fjord’s hips with his ass. “I’ll tell you.”

 

The head of Fjord’s cock is broad. “Slower,” Fjord commands when Caleb tries to press backwards immediately. “Don’t blame me for wanting to savor this.”

 

It’s more than a tight fit. It takes Caleb a solid ten minutes to slide himself down Fjord’s length. He’s honestly impressed at Fjord’s restraint—a man with lesser resolve would have fucked Caleb into the mattress by now, regardless of how ready Caleb was for it. Perhaps this is why Caleb trusted Fjord enough to let this night happen.

 

Fjord seems to hit every nerve bundle inside Caleb as he sinks in deep. The stretch is a sweet burn that brings a tear to Caleb’s eye. He knows his own untouched cock is weeping against his stomach, he can feel the slick drip of it on his skin. “Can you,” Caleb groans, and Fjord seems to read his mind as he proffers a gentle thrust.

 

Caleb can’t help but cry out as Fjord pushes inside him even deeper than before. He feels _full_ to the brim, and as Fjord’s hips begin to move, white hot pleasure nearly shatters Caleb. And then he feels his neck tugged slightly by his makeshift leash. Caleb moans, mouth opening wide to gasp for air.

 

“Just making sure you’re still with me,” Fjord says smugly. “Gonna tie you back here. Seems like I’m gonna need a harness to ride this horse.”

 

The tension from Fjord tying the tail of the leash to the ropes around Caleb’s wrists is—overwhelming. He is caught, like a fly in some kind of spider’s web. Caleb feels as Fjord laces his own fingers into the knots, creating a self-made hand hold. Fjord tests the waters by tugging back on the ropes that bind Caleb.

 

“Gods’ breath,” Caleb chokes out.

 

“You know you were made for this,” Fjord hums, and with every thrust of his own hips he tugs Caleb backwards. He is somehow, inexplicably, even deeper than before. The mind shattering thought that only now is Caleb feeling the warmth of Fjord’s hips against his ass nearly breaks him. It’s too much, but if Fjord ever stops, Caleb thinks he might have a just cause for murder.

 

“Fjord,” Caleb moans. “Please— _please_ please, I need—” He’s practically slurring his words at this point, but Fjord is so tapped into what Caleb is feeling, Caleb thinks that he gets the picture.

 

Fjord’s hips start pumping in a quick, erratic beat. “I think you can get there,” Fjord says, and his voice is getting strained now too. “I don’t think you need a hand. I think you can do it all on your own.”

 

Caleb groans in frustration. A quick but forceful hand on his cock right now would send him over the edge: he knows that, and Fjord knows that. “Won’t make things easy for me, will you?” Caleb pants.

 

“You’re earning it tonight,” is all Fjord replies. His fingers dig down deep into the fleshy part of Caleb’s hip, and Caleb knows that he won’t be forgetting this night for a long while.

 

He’s not sure what sends him over the edge: maybe it’s Fjord’s erratic thrusting, or the way Caleb’s breath comes shallowly, if at all. Caleb comes hard, like an arrow from a bowstring, a wild thing jerking beneath Fjord’s reigns. Fjord fucks him through it, and if the other patrons of the inn were somehow blissfully unaware of their efforts before, Caleb’s sobbing shriek of release has certainly alerted them now. Caleb’s vision blurs as he feels his mind dissociate from his earthly form.

 

Caleb collapses face first on the mattress, his legs gooey and worn out from the effort. Fjord slides out of him easily, and Caleb feels empty. “You did real well there,” Fjord praises gently. “Gods, you’re a sight right now.”

 

Caleb sighs pleasantly as Fjord jerks himself over Caleb’s prone form. He grunts before coming over the bindings at Caleb’s wrists. Caleb thinks distantly that he should help Fjord out, then remembers the ropes tying him down.

 

“Felt good,” Caleb hums half into the mattress. “Feels good.”

 

Fjord takes a few minutes to clean Caleb up. The ropes come off last, after Caleb has been wiped down with a washcloth on front and back. Fjord dips them in a bucket of water, sliding them between his fingers like some kind of religious ceremony.

 

Fjord looks at Caleb, who is now stretched out and languid across a pile of blankets. “Feels better?” he asks pointedly.

 

Caleb closes his eyes and hums in reply.

 

Fjord hangs the ropes up to dry before joining Caleb in bed. He runs his fingers through Caleb’s hair, soft as can be. “When you’re ready, we should talk about it,” he suggests gently.

 

Caleb nods half-heartedly. They _should_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, this is also my fucking room?”

 

Caleb wakes up with a lurch to see Molly sitting at the edge of the bed he and Fjord are currently occupying. He looks at the purple tiefling, but Molly has his gaze focused on Fjord. He looks _furious_.

 

“Get up,” Molly commands, tugging the blanket down off of Fjord viciously. “Get up so I can punch you right in the face.”

 

“Good morning, Molly,” Fjord says sleepily.

 

“You’re fucking _lucky_ I didn’t barge in here last night when I heard those _noises_ ,” Molly crows as Fjord gets to his feet. “Make sure you tuck your tongue behind your teeth.”

 

“Make sure I _what_ —” Fjord starts, but by the time the words are out, Molly has socked Fjord in the jaw.

 

“Ouch,” Caleb winces sympathetically from the bed.

 

“ _Fuckin’ ouch_ ,” Fjord repeats, holding his chin. He spits blood on the floor.

 

“I told you to tuck your damn tongue,” Molly growls. “ _He was in a damn state_. I can’t believe you, Fjord, I really can’t.”

 

Fjord looks from Molly to Caleb and back. “Alright,” he says, cracking his neck. “For clarification, then: he asked for it. And he’s not a child.”

 

Caleb hears Molly bite back with some kind of witty comment, but it doesn’t register in his head. Instead, he stands up, naked as the day he was born, and walks to the window.

 

The charred remains of a local inn across the way are getting carted off in wheelbarrows. As Caleb looks closer, he sees that a few key aspects of the architecture that endure: the pillars, the stairs, most of the walls. “Alfield will recover,” he says, staring out at the half-destroyed buildings in view. As he says the words, he realizes they’re true.

 

“Gods, Fjord, what did you do to him,” Molly asks. “He looks like he’s been a prisoner somewhere. His _wrists_ —”

 

“Only what he wanted,” Fjord replies simply.

 

Someone puts a blanket over Caleb’s shoulders. “You’ll blind the neighbors,” Molly says, wrapping the fabric around him. His tone softens. “Are you alright?”

 

Caleb turns around to see Molly’s concerned face. Caleb is surprised to find how nice it is to have someone give a shit about his well-being. Over the past fifteen years, Caleb hasn’t had that much, if at all. Over Molly’s shoulder, Caleb spots Fjord, his bottom lip dark green and swollen from Molly’s punch. Fjord’s leathers are already on, and he slowly but surely wraps his red ropes around his waist and arms. Fjord glances at Caleb as he ties his last knot and smiles.

 

“Not yet,” Caleb admits. “But I think I will be.”

 


End file.
